


Unapologetic

by kowaiyoukai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Daddy Issues, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-27
Updated: 2008-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean confronts John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unapologetic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the October round of [spn_monthlyfic](http://spn-monthlyfic.livejournal.com/). Challenge: wellew, Dean and John, bathroom, cleaning, bleach, "What the hell IS that?" Yes, I did two challenges this month. LE SIGH. I hated this challenge on sight, but I found a way to make it work anyway. Go me! I am an angst person, I can't be getting these comedic challenges. They make me itch. Also, there was a fourth keyword, mushrooms, which I didn't use because you're only allowed three keywords and that was the last one listed so it got bumped off. Also, I changed the capitalization to italics in the dialogue. What are you doing, wellew, giving a challenge to me with too many keywords, and after the deadline?! *headdesk* :P

Dean had lived through some bad days before. It came with the job. But today had passed straight through bad and into so bad it was actually funny. The demon had come to them, appearing with no warning in the bathroom of their motel room—of all fucking places. After they had killed the son of a bitch, the bathroom was covered in sulfur, salt, dirt, and blood. That came with the job, too.

Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem. Normally, they would have fought it somewhere else, on their own terms. Failing that, normally they would be paying for the room with a fake credit card. But the new credit card hadn't come in yet, and all the old ones were flagged, so it had been cold hard cash for this room—which meant that any fines they racked up had to be paid at the front desk before they could check out and get their room deposit back, which was their food money for the next week. Any fines they couldn't pay would be deducted from their room deposit. And of course, they had no extra cash to pay fines with. And wouldn't you know it, but they all figured cleaning up the remains of an exorcism probably wasn't going to be covered under ‘usual wear and tear from normal use'.

The girl had lived, which was lucky. Sam and Dean had gotten her into the backseat of the Impala, and the plan was for Sam to go out to bring the girl someplace safe and pick up some bleach. Because trying to clean the bathroom with a rag dunked in hot water mixed with shampoo and hand soap was not really working out for them.

So the day was not going quite how Dean had pictured it. His father was on the other side of the small bathroom, scrubbing away at a wall, while Dean was on his hands and knees, trying to get… _something_ off of the tiles. John hadn't said a word to him since Sam had left, besides a few short commands about filling up the bucket with soap and water, getting some rags, and starting on the floor. Dean knew his father wasn't a talkative guy. He was used to that from all the years they'd been working together. Still, he figured what with the two of them stuck in a bathroom for a while, the least they could do was talk. The only topic Dean ever talked to his father about was the job, and he figured it was safe to stick to that—a subject they both knew and were comfortable with.

"Can't _believe_ this demon found us here," Dean said, shaking his head.

There was complete silence from John for just under a minute. "You boys need to be more careful," he finally said.

"Huh?" Dean asked. He continued scrubbing at the red-yellow-brown stain on the tile. "We're always careful, dad. And anyway, no one got hurt."

"No, with giving out information." John's voice was monotone, as usual, and Dean could picture his face clearly even though they weren't even facing each other. "The demon found out we were here somehow."

Dean's arm slowed briefly before he began scrubbing harder. "What, you think Sam or me went and told that mother where to find us?" He snorted. "What the hell _is_ that? Come on."

"I didn't say that," John said, curtly. "But one word to the wrong person is all it takes, Dean. You know that." There was a pause that lasted long enough for Dean to wonder when talking to his father had become such a field of landmines. "This kind of carelessness—"

"Now hold on," Dean snapped, throwing his rag to the ground. He turned around a bit, still kneeling on the ground but at least facing his father now. "We didn't do anything wrong. Okay?" Dean's voice was hard, unyielding. "However it found us, it wasn't ‘cause Sam and me messed up."

"Sam could have been hurt, Dean," John said. "Is that what you want?"

"What?" Dean asked, voice low. "How can you even ask me that?"

"Because seems to me you're not doing so great a job at protecting him like I told you to."

Dean gave his father an incredulous look. "What is that supposed to mean? Huh?"

John threw down his own rag and finally turned to face Dean. "It means I meet up with you boys again and what are you doing? Throwing yourselves headfirst into a hunt you know nothing about."

"We did the research, all right? We knew the damn hunt."

"Well, you didn't know it more than it knew you," John replied. "If you really cared about protecting Sam, you wouldn't drag him into—"

"If _I_ really cared?" Dean repeated, voice rising. "I'm the one who's with him all the time, getting his back and making sure he stays alive and whole. _You're_ the one who's constantly leaving."

"I don't have to explain myself to you," John said, narrowing his eyes. "But of course I care about the both of you. That's why I—"

"Oh, don't give me that crap," Dean bit out, getting louder with every word he spoke. "You never cared about Sammy and me. All you ever cared about was _yourself_."

John's face became hard. Dean could see all of the lines on it clearly. He knew the kind of life his father had lived—the danger and terror he had first sought out and then overcome. The countless hunts, the nights spent alone, the horror at witnessing his wife's murder—Dean knew John had lived through more than people should.

It still didn't justify what their father had done to them. Leaving them alone night after night, taking them out of school so that neither of them made any friends or got to know anyone except each other, teaching them to use weapons when they were too young to understand what it meant—the consequences of all of that hadn't been a thought in John's head. His only thought was for revenge. There had been no room left for his children. Nothing could ever justify that.

Dean was surprised he had finally said it. Surprised, but not sorry.

"You watch your tone with me, boy," John said. His voice was quiet and monotone, but Dean still felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. He hated that, absolutely _hated_ that his father had that much control over him. "I cared about both of you. I _still_ care, as a matter of—"

"Bullshit," Dean interrupted. "Sam and me, we cared about each other. And that was all we had. If you think there was anything else, well, if it helps you sleep at night, be my guest."

"You and Sam wouldn't even be _alive_ if it wasn't for me," John's voice was louder than Dean's now, booming through the small room, echoing around until Dean could barely hear each new word. "I taught you how to survive."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, sneering. "You taught us how to shoot and kill and gamble and pull off fraud." He snorted. "Thanks a lot, _dad_."

"I did what I had to do to keep you boys safe." John's tone was razor sharp. Dean could feel it cutting into his flesh, every word digging just that bit deeper. "And I don't regret a thing."

Dean's lips pressed together and thinned out. "Maybe you should," he replied. His throat felt dry and scratchy, so he swallowed to try and fix it. "We didn't need all of that. We didn't need _any_ of it." Dean paused and breathed in deeply, trying to calm down. "We needed…" he trailed off and shook his head. "You know what? Forget it."

"I love you boys," John said, shortly. "That's why I trained you. So you could protect yourselves. So you could protect each other."

"Love?" Dean repeated with a small chuckle. "You did your best, I'll give you that. But love? Please."

"Don't you _dare_ say that to me!" John shouted. "I've done everything for you boys! Everything!"

"Yeah, you did everything. Except what we needed you to do." Dean shook his head. "Sam and me, we love each other." His chest felt all tight and hot—he could hardly breathe past his clenched teeth. "You wouldn't know the first thing about it."

John looked up, over Dean's head to the doorway. At first Dean thought he was thinking, or getting ready to leave or yell or throw something or maybe just ignoring him. But he quickly realized that wasn't it. Dean turned slightly and looked towards the door.

Sam was standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, and the light from the main room streamed through around his figure, making him seem like he couldn't possibly be real. He was holding a gallon of store-brand bleach, and he was eyeing Dean like he knew what they had been talking about, even though Dean knew it must have been his imagination because there was just no way Sam could know. Ever.

"I got the bleach," Sam said, lifting up the container a few inches.

"We're done here," John said, curtly. He stood up and walked towards the door. Sam moved aside, allowing John to brush by him. A minute later, the door opened and slammed shut so hard Dean thought it must have broken.

Sam bit his lower lip and kneeled down next to Dean, putting the bleach in between his knees. "You need some help?" His voice was soothing, like it always was, and Dean thought things were supposed to be like this. Their father gone but his presence still strong, still looming in their memories, and the two of them alone, doing the dirty work their father preferred to ignore.

"Always," Dean said, and meant it.

 

_fin._


End file.
